


I'll See You in My Dreams

by TrueIllusion



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Deathfic, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tearjerker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 09:12:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16829572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrueIllusion/pseuds/TrueIllusion
Summary: One shot. Set 25 years post-series. Standalone fic.How do you feel your way through the darkness once the sun has gone out?Brian's journey into the light.





	I'll See You in My Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SandiD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandiD/gifts).



Twenty years of marriage.

It wasn’t supposed to end this way.

Not now. Not this soon.

We were supposed to have forever.

Although forever would never be as long as it would have been, had I not let my fears get in the way of letting him know how much I loved him all those years ago. How much he meant to me. How much he’d changed how I felt about myself. How I felt about life.

We could have had longer, had I not pushed him to move to New York because I was afraid I was holding him back somehow. He came back, but I still grieved those lost years.

We could have had longer, had I not been so scared.

But it was still supposed to be longer than this.

I’ve spent the last week wishing I could turn back time and do things differently.

I could have told him that I loved him sooner. I could have not let him walk out on me -- twice -- because I was too chickenshit to tell him how I really felt. We could have had all of those years together, with no interruptions. No pauses. No anger. No excuses. No apologies. No regrets.

I could have given him everything he deserved. I could have given him the world.

I should have given him the world.

I should have taken him to the hospital sooner.

I should have insisted that it wasn’t just a stomachache. That it wasn’t nothing. That we should go and get it checked out.

Maybe if they’d found it earlier, things would have been different.

If they’d found it earlier, maybe I’d still have my Sunshine.

Instead, I’m sitting here in the dark. Alone. Smoking a cigarette in the bed we once shared. Blowing smoke rings into the air. My first cigarette in more than 20 years. Because what the hell does it matter, now?

What do I have to live for?

I’ve never been able to see the lights of Pittsburgh from here, save for the soft, orange glow on the eastern horizon outside our bedroom window. It’s not at all like the bright, colorful cityscape that used to illuminate the windows of the loft from mere feet away. It’s always been dark out here. But it’s never felt as dark as it does right now.

I lie back on the bed, savoring the taste of the smoke. Feeling the effects of the nicotine. It’s like being reacquainted with an old friend. One that I kind of missed, honestly.

But I told him that I’d quit for him. He begged me to, after my blood tests came back abnormal during my fifth annual checkup with my oncologist -- the one that should have declared me “cured.” A single phone call led us to spend a nerve-wracking week wondering what it would be, where it was, and what the treatment would involve. It led to us spending seven nights wrapped in each other’s arms, me comforting him and him comforting me, as the fear of the unknown hung heavy between us. Then, it all turned out to be nothing. Some small part of me wondered if I was still cured. The doctor didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. Maybe I was a little bit afraid. Afraid I would tempt fate if I got too complacent, so I preferred to leave things ambiguous. Justin cried with relief when we got the results back from the second test. Me, I felt like I could finally breathe, after a week of feeling like this was it -- this was the end. That I’d better get my affairs in order, because this time I was sure that my luck had run out. That I was going to be the one leaving him alone. That perhaps I was destined to be just like my father, after all.

But it was nothing. There was no cancer. And Justin put his foot down about the cigarettes. Made me promise I’d quit. I’d once promised him that I’d give anything, do anything, be anything, to make him happy. So I did. I did it for him.

Now, it’s just me. Alone again.

Only this time I’m not a bachelor. Pittsburgh’s most eligible and fuckable gay man, whom everyone wants to be with, or just plain wants to be.

This time, I’m a widower. Living alone in this palace in West Virginia. The palace I bought for my prince.

This bed is too big and too cold. The house is too quiet. It’s all too dark.

It’s lonely.

I’m lonely.

I don’t want to be here without him.

Here, in this house.

Here, in this world.

The darkness keeps me from seeing the blur in my vision from the tears in my eyes, but it doesn’t keep me from feeling them as they descend down the contour of my cheekbones, their wetness dampening my hair as well as the duvet.

Thirty years ago, I thought I’d be single forever. I thought that was what I wanted. To be unattached, always free to do whatever I wanted, with no one else to worry about but myself.

That’s when he came along. And he changed things for me. Forever.

We were supposed to have forever.

I’m not supposed to be smoking this cigarette. I’m not supposed to be lying here alone in this bed. He’s not supposed to be in the ground, in a cemetery back in Pittsburgh.

He’s supposed to be here with me.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this. How I’m supposed to go on, without him.

It should have been a routine surgery. They do it all the time -- removing people’s appendixes. It’s simple. It’s straightforward. No big deal.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to die.

He’d been complaining of an ache in his stomach, around his navel, for most of the day. He didn’t have much of an appetite, which wasn’t like him at all. He hadn’t even felt like painting, which definitely wasn’t like him. He’d spent most of the day in bed. Again, not like him. But he insisted it was nothing. Then he started vomiting, and the dull ache turned into a sharp, stabbing pain that he could barely breathe through. That was when we knew something was wrong.

The drive back to Pittsburgh seemed to take longer than it ever had before, even though I was speeding and breaking traffic laws left and right, while Justin moaned and clutched his stomach in the seat next to me. I held his hand. I told him we’d be there soon. And I silently cursed buying a house so far outside the city, in another goddamn state. Looking back now, I wonder if that would have made a difference.

When we finally got to the hospital, they whisked him away from me almost immediately, leaving me alone in a waiting room to fill out paperwork with shaking hands. I could barely remember his birthdate, much less his exhaustive list of drug allergies. My mind was elsewhere. My mind was with him. I had to hope that I’d gotten it all right. That I wouldn’t be the one to cause them to kill him with fucking Tylenol.

By the time I was reunited with him, they were ready to rush him off to surgery. Appendicitis, they said. Every second counted, because his appendix was on the brink of rupture. He was crying. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was in pain or because he was scared. I wiped his tears with my thumbs and kissed his nose and his lips and told him that I loved him. Told him that everything was going to be fine. That I’d be there waiting for him when he woke up, and he’d be good as new. He’d be back home, in our bed, in no time at all.

That was really how I thought it would go.

I managed to be strong until they wheeled him away, then I sank into a chair and let my own fears run away with me. I pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger and tried to will the tears away.

I sat in a waiting room and watched the minutes slowly tick by on the clock that hung above the television. The long hand had made a revolution and a half by the time someone came back to get me and led me to the recovery room, where I held his hand again and wiped his tears when he cried because he was confused and I answered his questions even when he asked them over and over and over again.

Then, they took us upstairs. Justin slept through what was left of the night in a hospital bed, with an assortment of tubing and wiring connecting his body to various machines. Monitors showing me his vital signs. Clear bags full of fluid hanging on poles, dripping into his veins, providing pain relief and prevention of infection. The miracle of modern medicine. Life was soft beeps and the flash of numbers on a screen. He looked so peaceful and at ease. I felt anything but. I spent the night wide awake in a chair, trying to process how close I’d just come to losing him. Having no idea that I was about to.

I called his mother in the morning, to tell her that we’d had a scare but all seemed to be well now. That he’d had surgery, they’d removed his appendix, and now we just had to wait. That we’d probably be home in a day or two. That was what the doctors had told me.

But everything changed the day after that, when Justin suddenly developed a fever. His heartbeat was rapid, and it seemed like he was out of breath. The area around his incision became hot and red. The doctors were concerned. They put him on IV antibiotics, and there was talk of a second surgery to flush out any possible infection they’d missed in the first one. But they didn’t get that far.

He went downhill quickly. I called Jennifer in a panic, and she rushed downtown, but he’d already lost consciousness by the time she got there. He hadn’t been making sense for a while at that point, but I told him I loved him anyway. I just hope he understood. I hope it helped him feel less scared. I kissed him and I held his hand.

They told us his organs were shutting down. That there was nothing they could do. Sepsis, they said it was. A complication of the surgery.

It wasn’t long before he left us completely. I was still holding his hand. Clinging to it like it was my own lifeline. I told him again that I loved him, but he was already gone. The rhythmic sound of his heartbeat, echoed by a machine’s soft beep, had been replaced by a constant whine, until a nurse had the mercy to turn off the machine. Then, there was silence, save for his mother’s sobs, and a painful, agonized scream that took me some time to realize was my own.

I remember their hands on me, gently ushering me out of the room and into the hallway so I wouldn’t have to see them cover his lifeless body with a sheet. I remember Jennifer clinging to me, and my own knees feeling so weak that I thought we might both collapse to the floor. I don’t know how long we stayed there, crying together. I only know that when I left, I felt numb. Lost.

Like the lights had gone out, and it was suddenly so dark that I couldn’t see my own hand in front of my face. I had no idea how to navigate. Where I was going. How I would get there.

I don’t remember driving back to the house that night. I don’t remember unlocking the door or going up the stairs. I only remember falling into bed -- our bed -- with my clothes still on. I remember the dampness of my tears on the pillowcase -- his pillowcase. It still smelled like him. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine he was there with me.

Maybe, in spirit, he was.

I remember hearing the door open and close. For a fleeting moment, I thought it might be him. Then, I remembered, and it felt like the world was crashing down around me. It couldn’t be him. He was gone. He’d never walk through that door again.

I looked up and saw Michael -- his big, brown eyes sadder than I’d ever seen them. I felt his arms come around me and hold me tightly while I broke down.

It reminded me of when we were kids and he’d comfort me after my good-for-nothing father beat me up -- only back then, he always told me it would be okay.

This time, he didn’t. Because he knew nothing was ever going to be okay again.

Not for me. Not without Sunshine.

Michael lost Ben ten years ago. He knew this pain. We had been here before, with our roles reversed -- me holding him while he cried and wondered how in the world he would go on.

But he had. He did go on. I just wasn't sure I could.

The funeral was three days later. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t think I ever would be ready. But it was happening anyway.

I'd sat in a funeral director's office and nodded my head numbly, agreeing to whatever he thought was best. Occasionally uttering a word or two just to express what I thought would be Justin's wishes. I had no idea if what I was doing was right, or even what he would have wanted. Maybe it didn’t really matter, since there would be no way to do justice to the life that he led with words or songs or prayers in a funeral service.

I never thought I would ever have to do this.

I was supposed to go first. None of this was right. It was all upside down and backwards, just like my life.

The visitation was a blur -- people shaking my hand, hugging me, telling me how sorry they were. But they were just words. Sentiments and sentimentality. There was nothing any of them could do to fix this.

Nothing could make me forget that Justin’s lifeless body was lying in the box at the front of the room. That I’d never look into his beautiful, blue eyes again. That I’d never see his smile. I’d never again get to hold his hand, or feel his warm, soft lips touch mine in a kiss, or gently caress his alabaster skin in the hot steam of the shower as I fucked him.

He was gone, and he’d taken a part of me with him. A part I knew I’d never get back.

But I wasn’t sure I wanted it anyway.

Not with anybody else.

The funeral was like torture. Watching people eulogize him, sharing their memories and their tears, while I couldn’t even find my voice to speak. _That’s okay_ , they told me. _We understand. No one expects you to speak._ But I felt like I should have. Like I owed it to him to be able to say at least a few words to publicly express what I felt for him.

But once again, I was a coward. I was scared. This time, not of love, but of the future.

A future without him.

I stood at the graveside service, staring at the green carpet that concealed the gaping hole in the ground below his casket, surrounded by our friends and his family -- our family. I still couldn’t bring myself to say anything. Jennifer was sobbing next to me, and I couldn’t help but feel that yet again, something that had happened to her son was my fault. We said our goodbyes, laid our roses on the casket, and I stood there, frozen, while everyone else walked away. Jennifer hugged me, before Molly and her husband ushered her to their car. I stayed there, alone with my Sunshine, until Michael pulled me away. He told me I didn’t want to watch what they were about to do. I wasn’t sure if I did or didn’t, but I went with him anyway.

We ended up at Ted and Blake’s house, where I sat in a corner and slowly sipped a glass of whiskey. People kept checking on me, trying to bring me food, seeing if I was okay. I detached my voice from the feelings in my body, the way I had so many times before in my life, and told them what they wanted to hear -- what made them feel better. But I wasn’t okay.

Michael drove me back to the house that night. He seemed reluctant to leave me alone. He asked me three times if I was sure I’d be alright. Told me he would stay if I wanted him to. I told him to go. I tried to paste a smile on my face but it came out as more of a grimace. He hugged me again and kissed me on the lips and told me he loved me. That he always had and he always would.

Four days later, here I am, lying in our bed -- alone -- smoking that goddamn cigarette. Because I just don’t give a fuck anymore.

I’ve been trying to figure it out -- how to go on, without the light of my Sunshine. But without him, the world seems too dark. It’s been cloudy every day since he died. That seems appropriate. I wonder if I’ll ever see the sun again. And honestly, I don’t care if I do. Because it still won’t bring him back.

I put the cigarette out and decide to take a shower. It feels like I’m showering with a ghost. The ghost of him. I see him everywhere. I just wish he was real. That I could touch him, one more time. Kiss him, one more time. Fuck him, one more time.

Touch was always our primary method of communication. Without him, I feel deaf and blind and numb.

I slide into our bed, alone, feeling the coldness of the sheets and the emptiness next to me. I pull the duvet up over my head and hug his pillow close to me as I cry.

I feel broken. I wonder if I ever won’t feel that way.

Although I’m not sure I care anymore.

I dream of Justin that night. Kissing him. Touching him. Fucking him.

I wake up the next day and try to go on. I need to go into the office. Ted told me to take as long as I needed, but I’m suddenly desperate to grab onto any small shred of normalcy that I can. So I make the long drive to Pittsburgh. I stop at the Liberty Diner for breakfast, but it’s not the same. It hasn’t been the same for years now. I miss Debbie. She’s been gone for nearly a decade, but for some reason, today, her loss feels much more profound.

As I sip my coffee, I briefly wonder if she and Sunshine are together. If she’s showing him the ropes, up there in the afterlife. I’ve never felt more compelled to believe in heaven than I do right now. I need for there to be something, because it hurts too much to imagine that the end of life is simply a hard stop, after which there is nothing.

I can only force myself to eat half of my eggs and toast, so I give up and go on to the office. Ted and Cynthia look surprised to see me, but they don’t say anything. Cynthia lingers outside my office door, watching me with concern in her eyes. Both of them keep coming into my office repeatedly, separating and spacing out out tasks that could have easily been taken care of in a single trip. But I know what they’re doing. And it’s okay. I know they’re only doing it because they care. I let them do it. And I try to be okay, too.

I work through lunch, even though Cynthia tries her best to get me to go out with her to some new bistro a few blocks over. She brings me a sandwich, but it sits, untouched, on the corner of my desk. I don’t feel like eating.

I haven't been feeling right all day. I'm tired. My whole body aches. I feel so empty. I wonder if this is what it feels like to have a broken heart.

I leave the office early, because I want to go talk to Justin. I haven’t been there since the funeral. I haven’t wanted to go. But right now, I do.

I park the car on the side of the winding road that snakes its way through the sea of granite and marble. I walk up the hill to where Justin is, his resting place marked temporarily by a small, engraved nameplate.

Justin Taylor-Kinney.

I kneel down beside it, careful not to disturb the freshly dug earth.

My fingers trail lightly over my wedding ring. A physical reminder of the vows we took so long ago. When we promised ourselves to each other, forever. When we merged our names. Merged our lives. Touching it helps me feel connected to him. Because six feet below the spot where I kneel, he still has its mate.

They asked me if I wanted to keep it, or let it go with him. I didn’t know why I would want to keep it. It was his. I gave it to him, along with my love. He should have it, forever, just like he’ll always have my heart.

“You know, you’re supposed to be the one doing this,” I say. “Kneeling at a gravesite. Mourning me. Not me mourning you. This all just feels so...wrong.”

I look away for a moment. I see a family tying Happy Birthday balloons to a marker a couple of rows away. I wonder if I’ll do that when his birthday comes around. I know I said I don’t believe in birthdays, but that was only because for me, birthdays were never associated with anything positive. I never had a party with my friends. There were never presents. There was barely even cake, and my mother would always act like she was put out by making it for me, even though she did it every year. I don’t know why she even bothered. My birth had never been something to be celebrated. I knew that, even as a child. And the thirtieth anniversary of it was the worst night of my life. At least, it was, until last Tuesday.

“Were you scared, Sunshine?” I say, softly. “I was scared. I was fucking petrified. I still am. I don’t know what I’m doing. How to do this. How do I go on, when I don’t want to?”

I came out here because I thought talking to him would make me feel better, but it isn’t. It’s only making me feel his loss even more, the longer I stare at the grave marker that will soon be replaced by a headstone that I chose -- my final gift to him.

I look away, turning my gaze up toward the sky instead. I try to imagine him beyond the clouds, looking down at me, stuck here on earth.

“I just want to see you again. Even if I can’t touch you...if I could just see you. Can you do that for me? It’s so lonely in that house, without you.”

I’m trying not to break down, but I’m losing that battle. I do want to feel him. I want to feel his arms around me, hugging me, telling me it’s going to be okay. Because if he could do that, then I would be.

But he can’t. And I know I won’t be.

“Say hello to Deb for me, would you, Sunshine? Tell her I love her. If it wasn’t for her…” I pause and inhale a shaky breath. “...and you...I don’t know where I’d be. I don’t know how to do this without you. But I’ll try. I don’t want to, but I’ll try. I’ll do it for you.”

I can’t stop the tears now. They’re running down my face and soaking into my suit jacket, but I can’t bring myself to care.

“I dreamed about you, last night. It felt so real. Like you were right there next to me, holding me. I swear I felt you kiss me. But when I woke up, you weren’t there. I don’t know what I expected. I know that you’re gone. But I just… I don’t want to let go. I know, I know...I have to try. I’m going to try. For you, though. Not for me.”

I run my fingers over the titanium band on my left ring finger one more time. I bring my fingertips to my lips, kiss them, then touch them down on the earth underneath which Justin’s body lies. Where I know his spirit isn’t. Because it will always be with me. In my heart. In my dreams.

“I love you,” I whisper, as I push myself up to stand on trembling legs. “I’ll see you in my dreams.”

I turn and walk away. I’ve only taken a few steps when I start to feel breathless. There is a sudden, sharp pain in my chest, and I feel like I’m being squeezed in a vice. I fall to my knees. I’m trying desperately to take a breath, but I can’t. The pressure is too much.

I feel hands on me as the rest of my body crumples to the ground. Hear strangers shouting to call 9-1-1. I let my eyes close and succumb to the sensation of falling into darkness. Falling, falling...until I find myself suddenly bathed by a blinding, white light that pushes the darkness away. Replaces the cold with warmth. The despair with joy.

Because in the middle of that light, stands my Sunshine.


End file.
